Buy buy baby

Hark, the Christmas tills do ring. The season of giving, taking, looting, stabbing and shooting is almost upon us. The Little Drummer Boy has already driven me from at least two malls.

All you can do is laugh. You have to, otherwise you’ll cry. This is where my new book is useful.

As you know, if you’ve been paying attention, Durban Poison is available in proper bookshops like Exclusive Books and Wordsworth. Other shops might have it, too. If they don’t, burn them to the ground.

If you want your copy scribbled in, you’ll have to buy it right here on this site. Just click on the Contraband link. You wouldn’t be the first. In fact, I’m on my way to the Post Office right now to despatch the first bunch of orders. I have even provided photographic evidence in case you think I’m lying.

Stock is limited, as is my enthusiasm for continuing to pay for packaging, postage and driving to the Post Office.

Contraband

‘Durban Poison: A Collection of Vitriol and Wit’ by Ben Trovato is the funniest book I’ve read all year

Get your Durban Poison here!

I promised that my new book would be available on my website and, lo, it has come to pass. Praise be.

I’m happy to devalue your copy by scribbling something in it. If you want it inscribed to someone other than yourself, supply the name in the box marked Order Notes.

There is limited stock available. Seriously. I am not just saying that to sell more books. I’m not like the others. Also, given the reputation of the Post Office, early orders are advisable unless you want to get it in time for Christmas 2020.

PDFs of my other titles are also available. Just click on Contraband.

Contraband

 

 

 

 

Boks, beer and a brand new book

Right. It’s the day after the big win and I know how you are feeling. But you’re in luck. I happen to have the perfect cure for a crushing hangover. It’s my new book, Durban Poison, and it will help tremendously in the recovery process. Laugh or die. The choice is yours.

Published by former smasher of drugs and crasher of Ferraris, Melinda Ferguson, the book has been selected by Exclusive Books for inclusion on The List. It’s also available in other bookshops and online. And as an ebook.

In the next few days you will be able to order a copy right here on this site. If you like, I’ll devalue yours by scribbling something in it. I might even get around to posting it. Coming on top of the Bok win, this really is the cherry on the koek.

What a time to be alive.

 

Durban Poison PR

https://www.iol.co.za/sunday-tribune/i-aim-for-100-words-per-beer-ben-trovato-talks-new-book-36052829

 

 

 

The Ben Trovato Files

Who among us doesn’t remember satirist Ben Trovato’s outrageously subversive trilogy of letters to and replies from the rich, famous and downright dangerous? Well, the madness continues as the letters are reincarnated for the first time on video.

Featuring scenes of the writer himself, the letters come to life in a creative mélange of stop-motion animation, live action and a liberal dose of artistic craziness.

The episodes will be short and punchy, each featuring a letter and its reply, with durations ranging from ninety seconds to three minutes. The team has produced a pilot episode titled ‘The Two Oceans Aquarium’ from a letter Trovato wrote to the big house of fish. He got a reply without even having to bribe them.

Working on this project is a close-knit production team including cinematographer Dave Aenmey and animation artist Lindsay van Blerk. Dave has worked on many commercials, music videos, documentaries and feature films during his 30-year career.

Lindsay has directed and animated numerous award-winning films including The Velveteen Rabbit and The Chimes. He worked as storyboard supervisor and director of animation on the feature film Zambezia and has also directed and animated TV commercials and television series.

The material is drawn from the many letters and replies that appeared in The Ben Trovato Files, Will The Real Ben Trovato Please Stand Up and Stirred Not Shaken.

Anyone interested in helping to finance the series in return for a production credit is invited to contact Ben at bentrovato@mweb.co.za or leave a message right here on his site. Enquiries from producers and production houses are also welcome.

The pilot episode can be viewed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmafQMWDkrA

On brave Americans and goats of darkness

Dear Bryan,

I do apologise. The world is full of inconsequential Bryans and I am sure the last thing a man of your stature would want is to be confused with the multitude of Bryans who lack the courage to shoot a wild mountain goat. I mean no disrespect. There is only one Bryan Kinsel Harlan in this world. Or in Texas, at least. Dallas, certainly.

I saw your video on social media and was blown away. Not in the same way your goat was blown away, obviously. But watching you scrambling through the rocky terrain of Pakistan’s northern Gilgit region with only a dozen or so heavily armed guides as backup, I felt my loins stir on more than one occasion. And when you raised your rifle and shot that goat, well, it was all I could do not to have an incident in my pants. I can’t begin to imagine how aroused you must get watching an animal through your telescopic sights, knowing it only has seconds left to live.

High-fiving the guides after pulling the trigger was a nice gesture. Americans all too often forget to give credit to the locals who help them hunt goats or Islamic insurgents or whatever happens to be on the list of things to kill that day.

I believe you paid a record price of $110 000 dollars to shoot your goat. You must be a very wealthy man. In my country, that kind of money gets you two cabinet ministers and the CEO of one of our smaller parastatals.

Sadly, not everyone is impressed. There are some people who think what you did is barbaric and cruel. I am outraged at their outrage. I can’t believe that the animal huggers at PETA not only condemned the hunt but went so far as to describe goats as “gentle individuals, not trophies”.

I am sure you know what it’s like to have a goat come on you … I beg your pardon. Come at you. They won’t hesitate to batter you mercilessly until you are forced to run away with your pants around your ankles. Or so I have heard.

And who can forget that the devil himself is portrayed as a goat? You are obviously aware that GOAT is an acronym for Greatest of All Time. How dare they usurp the title reserved for Jesus. This godless arrogance will not stand. I wouldn’t be surprised if this hunt wasn’t part of your broader Christian mission to punish Satan. Good for you. I, for one, will sleep more soundly tonight knowing there is one less evil, cloven-hoofed beast out there.

I read that a gang of Pakistanis are also up in arms. Ha! If only. More arms would mean fewer depraved ungulates to lead our children astray. After seeing pictures of you and your dead goat, these cabbage-eating extremists called for a ban on hunting. Sure, this goat is their country’s national animal, but so what? Ours is the springbok and we can’t get their flesh down our throats, their heads on our walls or their skins on our floors quick enough.

Okay, so there are fewer than six thousand Astor markhors left in the world. But still. Goats. Right? To encourage more Americans to trophy hunt, your Fish and Wildlife Service reclassified them as threatened rather than endangered. Damn right, they’re threatened. By real men like you.

I thought it was very decent of you to give the local press an interview. After all, it’s a well-known fact that journalists are closely related to goats as a result of spending time in close proximity to one another on Noah’s ark and neither can be trusted.

A Pakistani newspaper quoted you as saying, “It was an easy and close shot and I am pleased to take this trophy.” This makes it sound like the goat was still woozy from the anaesthetic when you walked up and put a bullet into the back of his head.

You were obviously misquoted and I hope you are taking legal action. I have no doubt that your original quote was more along the lines of, “The battle between this vicious creature and me, a battle between good and evil, was long and brutal and I knew only one of us would get out of there alive.”

No, wait. What am I talking about? I saw the video. Your big boy goat was sitting next to a much younger goat. His wife? His lover? His child? Who knows. More importantly, who cares. Well, I suppose the other goat might still be wondering why her companion suddenly jumped up, thrashed about and then died in a pool of blood. Still, that’s not your problem. It’s not like she can sue you for loss of income.

At the end of your video, you encourage Americans to visit Pakistan. You say Mexico is more dangerous than Pakistan. Bloody Mexicans. Build that wall. I’m with you on this. Texans especially should check out northern Waziristan. The local Taliban guides will be happy to help out. Just watch out for the drones. You should be okay, though. They’re hunting Muslims, not red-blooded patriots like yourself.

MAGA! (May All Goats be Assassinated).

An open letter to Donald Trump

Hey Donald!

Or should I call you President Trump? It certainly has a magnificent ring to it. Magnificent, obviously, in the way that a tornado heading for a redneck trailer park in, say, Texas, is magnificent. On second thoughts, president is not a powerful enough designation for a man of your caliber. In the parlance you’re comfortable with, president is a pussy word. A lot of terrible people have been and still are presidents. Nixon, Mugabe, that North Korean lunatic, Caligula, Zuma. The list is endless.

When you win the elections, your first executive action must be to declare martial law. Impose curfews. Roll out the tanks. And forget about the White House. That’s for gay liberals like George W Bush. You need to move into the Pentagon and get fitted with a uniform made of Kevlar and lion skins. Maybe get a bandolier of solid gold bullets to string across your chest. Since you’ve never been to war, you’ll have to make some medals of your own. The centrepiece could be an Iron Cross studded with rubies. Your new title could be something like Field Marshal or, even better, Führer. You will also need to declare yourself President for Life. The sooner the proletariat know where they stand the better it will be for you. In fact, don’t let them stand at all. That just encourages the swine. Keep them on their knees.

Like you, I, too, am something of a racist, sexist, homophobic misogynist. You’re a professional, though. I simply dabble. This is why you’re going to be the most powerful man in the world while I remain the most powerful man in my house. I live alone. Hopefully that will change once you bring me on board as your chief advisor.

One of the reasons I want to work for you is because you’re not an intellectual. You tweet while others read. You talk first and think later, if at all. Thinking is heavily overrated. Winners like you act purely on animal instinct. The only point of having an opposable thumb is to help you sign cheques and death warrants. And pull triggers.

Speaking of which, how are the boys? The last time I saw a picture of Donald Jr and Eric, the naughty little scamps were holding up bits they’d hacked off wild animals while hunting in my country. Does Eric still have the elephant tail? I bet he uses it to whip his boyfriend’s ass when they’re home alone. Fair play to him.

I would vote for you in a heartbeat because you are so full of brilliant ideas, among other things. Your notion that America should ban all Muslims was a stroke of genius. Are you really a genius or did you just have a stroke? I apologise. This is not the time for jokes. Not that there ever really is a time for jokes. Jokes are for losers.

I also applaud your stance on climate change. If the climate has a problem, then the climate must change, not us. We were here first, right? That’s the problem with the environment. It’s always doing something dramatic to get our attention. Worse than a needy child. When you’re in charge, I hope you punish it with loads of pollution.

Well done on winning New Hampshire, by the way. What was second prize? Vermont? In South Africa, we can’t be trusted to nominate a presidential candidate of our choice. This is done for us by others. We’re not entirely sure who they are. Some say they are extraterrestrials similar to the giant prawns in the nature documentary District 9, only less articulate.

You have much in common with our president. Well, just the one thing, really. You both lack any sense of shame. I think that’s because you both have a background in reality television, except Jacob Zuma who has no grasp on reality and doesn’t watch television. Not the news, anyway.

Big Don, you have this one in the bag. Your nearest rival in the Democratic camp is Hillary Clinton. As you know, she has strong and weak points. Her strong point is that she’s a woman. This is also her weak point. You have nothing to worry about there. Nor do you have to worry about Rubio and Cruz. Goddamn immigrants. Them rummed-up Cubans are worse than them mommy-jabbing Mexicans, I tell ya. Once you’re done bombing the shit out of ISIS, bomb the shit out of Cuba. Then turn it into a giant theme park. Like Disneyland but without all those homo cartoon characters. And have guns. Lots of guns.

Also, you need to replace your Supreme Court judges with the people who run your casinos. Justice is a gamble and you’re a five-card stud. With the law in your pocket, nothing can stop you. Scrap the states and make it one big America. Rework the pledge of allegiance. Replace the word “God” with “Donald Trump The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived”. And take out that nonsense about liberty for all. It just confuses people.

How was your Valentine’s Day, by the way? Did you give your daughter something special? I bet you did, you old rogue, you. Well done. The family that sleeps together stays together.

Looking forward to seeing you set some serious snares on the ol’ campaign trail. That ancient commie bastard Bernie Sanders is bound to stumble into one sooner or later.

And good luck for South Carolina. My advice is not to bother going after the darkie vote. They probably haven’t forgotten that slavery business even though god knows they’ve had long enough to get over it. No matter. The Evangelical Protestants are gonna lap you up. Sorry. That sounds a bit faggoty. You know what I mean.

Anyway. I’m your biggest fan. Can I have a million dollars?

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To Cde Blade Nzimande – Minister of Higher Education 

Here’s a letter I wrote to old pineapple face in 2009.

 

Dear Comrade Blade,

How dare these scoundrels accuse you of betraying the revolution simply because you ordered a car worth R1.1-million? This is peanuts when you compare it to other cars. That Swazi chap Mswati owns a Maybach that cost R3-million, which probably explains why you only ever see him in animal skins.

Even the Russians travel to the International Space Station in a vehicle worth $1.7-billion. That’s excluding petrol. Your fuel bill is probably higher than theirs, what with having to visit all the universities around Sandton every second month.

You need a powerful, reliable car because education is a dangerous business. Far more dangerous than defence. And while the defence minister is a lot better-looking than you are, it is you who controls the future of this great country.

Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the masses and Pablo Escobar said opium is the opium of the masses. Both men were right. As are you. There are those who would like to cause you harm and see you fail in your job. I don’t know who these people are or what their agenda is, but they are out there.

I have no idea if you are a communist or a socialist. Truth is, I lack the education to tell the difference. But you strike me as a decent and honourable man. A bit scary, certainly, but that goes with the ideology. If I had to bump into you on a moonless night in an isolated area near a deserted truck stop in the middle of nowhere, I would scream like a girl and run away. Perhaps that’s just a white thing.

The BMW 750i is a damn fine vehicle. It can outrun anything the police own, which is an important consideration if you have inveigled your way into a political system with the intention of subverting it from within. You are snuggling up to a nest of vipers and it is vital that you are able to get away quickly when they strike. And strike, they will.

To be honest, I am impressed that you chose a car. If I were you, I would have demanded a Rooivalk attack helicopter. Communism needs to spread quickly and effectively, like tuberculosis, and once in the air you could fire at convoys carrying plutocrats like Pravin Gordhan and all the others who make you look bad by driving around in second-hand Volkswagen Beetles bought off the Internet.

For a long time Gordhan went out of his way to make me look bad, too. Dear God, how many audits must an honest man go through before he turns bad?

I am very disappointed in Cosatu. They are meant to be comrades, people who know the difference between Das Kapital and Mein Kampf, and yet until just the other day they were howling for you to dump your chariot of the gods.

Patrick Craven, Cosatu’s pet goat, said you and other admirers of German technology should set an example to the struggling masses by driving what he called a “modest car”. What a thing to say. Does he not know that cars are like women? What man would choose a modest woman if he could have one coated in silver and gold who goes from naught to 100 in five seconds flat without even asking for a blood test?

The pet goat said you gave the impression that you “do not care about the message this opulence gives to the poor”. Message? Please. If the poor want messages they can go to the post office like the rest of us. The goat also said, “Spending so much money on vehicles is a slap in the face of the unemployed …”

What rubbish. I know unemployed people who are more than grateful to get a slap in the face. I asked one just the other day why he allowed me to slap him, and he said, “It’s better than nothing, comrade.” I had to slap him again for calling me comrade. I am not a comrade. I am an anarcho-syndicalist with Bolshevik leanings and a penchant for women’s underwear.

Interesting how, in just a few days, the idiot savant Julius Malema went from calling you an elitist Tassenberg junkie to defending your right to buy a BMW. Coming to his senses, he quoted the ministerial handjob – I beg your pardon – the ministerial handbook which entitles you to purchase a vehicle to the value of the GDP of Lesotho.

And don’t worry about what the Democratic Alliance says. Those hippies are still riding skateboards.

Your man in the back seat,

Ben Trovato

Trike-protest

An open letter to Walter “Fuck Cecil” Palmer

Dear Walter,

On behalf of specieists everywhere, I would like to congratulate you for taking down Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe the other day. What kind of name is Cecil, anyway? For that alone he deserved to die. Besides, he was getting way too big for his paws. Apparently he strutted about as if he owned the bush, posing for tourists and even letting children ride on his back. Thank god we have men like you to remind lions of their place – on your study wall.

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Elephant huggers keep referring to Cecil as a “much-loved lion”. This is ridiculous. You can’t love a lion. It says so in the Bible. Next thing you know, people will want to marry lions and have their babies and the world will be overrun with lion-people clawing at each other and fornicating out in the open.

I understand you were hunting with a bow and arrow. Well done. It’s my favourite weapon, too. Do you also live in a cave and wear skins? Do you club your wife over the head and drag her to your bed at night? Of course you do. You are, after all, a fine example of early Paleolithic man.

I see you chose a profession that involves hurting people. Of course you’d be a hunter in your spare time. You spend your days up to your elbows in blood and spittle, patients fighting you off, grabbing you by the throat, kicking you in the nuts. I would also want to kill things if I was a dentist. Things that don’t fight back, obviously.

Reports say you and your guides lured Cecil out of the Hwange National Park by strapping a dead animal to your vehicle. You should have just opened the back door. Cecil would have jumped right in and gone along for the ride. You could have turned around and shot him in the face, saving everyone a lot of time and effort.

Instead, you fired an arrow into Cecil and then spent the next two days looking for him. I’m surprised you didn’t find him sooner. He was, after all, wearing a GPS collar. Perhaps you thought all teenage African lions were wearing funky collars this year.

I hope you offered Cecil a blindfold before executing him. That would have been the Christian thing to do. Obviously you couldn’t offer him a final meal because he’d obviously choose you. But you would, I’m sure, at least have waited until he was dead before skinning him and chopping his head off.

You should mount his head on the wall of your dental practice in Minnesota. That would impress your lady patients and send a message to the guys that you are not a man to be trifled with. If anyone complains, lure them into the parking lot and shoot them full of novocaine. What you do with them after that is your business.

You have quite a record, my man. Apart from all the beasts you have slaughtered, you also landed a hefty fine in 2008 for lying to a federal agent about where you shot a black bear in Wisconsin. I bet you found him drunk and passed out behind a Walmart and couldn’t resist shooting him in the back just for fun.

A couple of years before the bear, you forked out a massive amount to one of your receptionists after she accused you of sexual harassment. What the hell is wrong with your country? Lying to the police, killing animals and fondling the staff are some of the things that make America great. They should have given you a goddamn Congressional Medal of Honour.

Anyway, Walter, old buddy. I’m off to murder an elephant for lunch. I generally use an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The explosion is quite spectacular and the animal hardly ever suffers. You should try it some time.

Murderously yours,

Brigadier Benjamin Bravado

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A letter to God

Dear God,

Sorry to bother you while you’re on holiday. I just felt like getting some stuff off my chest. I’m sure your in-box is stuffed with requests, complaints and demands going back hundreds of years. That’s why I’m slipping twenty bucks into the envelope. Get Jesus something nice. Tell him it was from me.

Here’s the thing. I’ve lost my cellphone charger and I was hoping you could … ha ha. Just kidding. If I’ve been bumped to the front of the line, I wouldn’t dare presume to waste your time with frivolities.

I’m in Cape Town at the moment. Love what you’ve done with the place. But the weather? What in your name were you thinking? Were you perhaps under the impression people living here would enjoy spending half the year wearing oilskins and thermal underwear? To give credit where it’s due, though, you did get it right in Durban. You couldn’t find a city with lovelier winters. Summers you apparently subcontracted out. But to Lucifer? Sure, he works fast, but he does have a bit too much of a thing for hot curries and humidity.

I’ve just driven through the Transkei and couldn’t help noticing that it could do with a bit of a touch-up. I’m not suggesting you do it yourself, obviously. If you still haven’t got around to sorting out the Middle East, you’re clearly running a bit behind schedule. Perhaps you could spare one of your lieutenants, though. What’s Noah up to these days? He was always good with his hands.

I hope I am not coming across as too much of a pain in the butt. I know what happens to rude, arrogant people. You curse them by making them very rich. What a burden to bear. Every night I pray for you not to send money my way and every day I find my prayers being answered.

Listen. There are a few people I need to mention. I have a list, but for now let me give you two names. Julius Malema and Steve Hofmeyr. I know we are all hypothetically your children, but you must have been on some kind of transcendental medication when you spawned those two pieces of work. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but if you ever find yourself short a couple of sunbeams, do us all a favour.

By the way, about that earthquake on Tuesday. Were you trying to tell us something? There are easier ways, you know. Is your email down? Can’t you speak English? Or even Zulu? Everyone seems to have an opinion on the event and, given that one in three people in this country is mentally ill, it’s hard to know what to believe. Someone said you were punishing us because we abolished the death penalty and allow gambling, abortion and homosexuality. Given your reputation in the Bible, it may well be the case. I don’t care. I was in Cape Town and felt nothing. Most people in Cape Town feel nothing at the best of times. Well, most white people, anyway. But you’re not to blame for that. Or are you?

Do you have any clout with the Chinese or Vietnamese? Probably not. But on the off-chance that you do, could you get them to stop snorting our rhinos? I’m sure they’d rather have cocaine. Perhaps you could bring the street price down a bit. And please kill Facebook.

I know the Jews are your chosen people and you’ve done very well to fit a big country like America into a small pocket like Israel, but how does your boy feel about this? I would have thought he might still have hard feelings about that nasty business a couple of thousand years ago. Then again, he was always big on forgiveness. We have people like that here, too. A lot of parents forgive the men who kill their children and say it’s what you willed. They like to think they are emulating Jesus, but they aren’t really. They’re just not very bright.

Oh, before I forget. I have something for you – a token of thanks for all the times you’ve saved my ass. It’s a copy of my book Incognito – The Memoirs of Ben Trovato. I imagine you’re quite capable of purloining your own copy, but they’re selling out fast and the publishers in this country are reluctant to reprint once they have their pound of flesh. Meet me on the beach – being omnipresent you’re unlikely to go to the wrong one – at 3pm on Tuesday and I’ll give you a signed copy.

Yours truly,

Ben

 

 

 

 

A blast from the past

A Letter to Eric and Donald Trump Jnr

 

Hey boys!

Just wanted to congratulate you on your successful hunting trip to Zimbabwe. Our papers have been full of pictures of you guys holding up dead leopards in a pink mist of vapourised waterbuck. You’re real heroes in these parts, let me tell you. There has been a bit of criticism, but it’s coming mainly from white bunny-hugging do-gooders who think wild animals are there to be photographed instead of destroyed like the vermin they are. Bloody liberals.

I see you managed to bag three of the Big Five. Well done! But what stopped you from going for a full house? You got the buffalo, elephant and leopard, but missed the rhino and lion. And you call yourselves Trumps? Just kidding. I’m sure it’s not your fault. I bet the organisers of the hunt failed to tether them securely and they escaped before you could drive up and shoot them in the face.

Donald jnr, I particularly enjoyed the picture of you holding an elephant’s tail in one hand and a knife in the other. You can even see the legs of the elephant lying on the ground to prove that you got it off the animal and not from a curio shop. I bet you also cut off its trunk and poked it through your zipper and pretended you had a giant willy. I certainly would have.

I liked the shot of you guys posing next to a crocodile strung up from a tree. It reminded me of those old pictures from your Deep South. Now that the darkies are off-limits, croc-lynching could be the next big thing in Alabama. Wanna be partners? You gun ’em down, I string ’em up.

By the way, did you know that we also have a Small Five that are tremendous fun to kill? Meerkats are my best. If you’re quick, you can run up and kick them before they bolt for cover. Your brother, Eric, could have been waiting in an imaginary end zone to catch the flying ‘kat. Touchdown! American football, Africa style. What’s not to love?

Another of my favourites is the tortoise. Hunting tortoises is usually done when you have a hangover. I’m sure you had lots of those on your trip because the only way to survive Africa is to drink heavily while firing blindly into the night.

So what you do is set up your chair within shouting distance of a reliable servant – you don’t want to run out of Bloody Marys – and wait for a tortoise to come along. Put your foot on his back to stop him from getting away. This is where it gets tricky. He will have retracted himself, making a clean head shot impossible. Don’t shoot him in the shell if you plan on using him as a paper-weight. They shatter easily. Rather take a leaf out of your father’s book. Cut off his lights and water and starve him out.

You said the local villagers were overjoyed at getting the meat from your hunt. And why wouldn’t they be? Leopard carpaccio garnished with a sprinkling of civet cat and drizzled with crocodile jus doesn’t appear on the menu in the Matetsi area all that often.

When I read that the hunt organisers were called Hunting Legends, I thought they were offering legends like President Robert Mugabe. Now there’s a trophy you should have on your wall. But I suppose he would put up too much of a fight. Not that you lads aren’t bok for a fight. Far from it. A kudu is a hell of an adversary. You were just fortunate to come across one that was drugged. To be honest, a lot of the game in southern Africa is on drugs these days. They also lack any real work ethic and spend most of the day sleeping. Smelly freeloaders. No wonder we kill them.

You were also lucky to have survived shooting a tusker. Many elephants, particularly in Zimbabwe, are known to explode without warning and, even from a distance of 300 metres, you could easily have lost a leg. Or worse, had your hair messed up. Gel is hard to come by in the bush. Poachers probably stole his detonator. With elections coming up, they are worth more than ivory these days.

I’m not much of a hunter myself, but I think I know why you boys enjoy it. For a start, Eric is a girl’s name and he has a lot to prove. And your name is Donald jnr, and yet it is Eric who looks more like your father. No wonder you’re angry.

You said the money you paid for the hunt will be used to fund nature conservation in Zimbabwe. I presume by “fund nature conservation” you mean “arm Zanu-PF veterans”. That’s okay. We understand code in these parts. No names, no pack-drill. Whatever the hell that means.

My wife, Brenda, says you’re both latent homosexuals. As my Uncle Pervy used to say, “Better latent than never.” Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I beat her soundly for her insolence.

I must say, though, Eric, you do look pretty damn sexy with that leopard draped over your shoulders. It brings out your eyes. And Donald jnr, seeing you straddling that dead buffalo makes doggie style seem positively Christian.

Y’all come back again!